As the days went by and he settled down at the Hotel Cosmopolis, Archie, looking about him and revising earlier judgments, was inclined to think that of all his immediate circle he most admired Parker, the lean, grave valet of Mr. Daniel Brewster. Here was a man who, living in the closest contact with one of the most difficult persons in New York, contrived all the while to maintain an unbowed head, and, as far as one could gather from appearances, a tolerably cheerful disposition. A great man, judge him by what standard you pleased. Anxious as he was to earn an honest living, Archie would not have changed places with Parker for the salary of a movie-star.
It was Parker who first directed Archie's attention to the hidden merits of Pongo. Archie had drifted into his father-in-law's suite one morning, as he sometimes did in the effort to establish more amicable relations, and had found it occupied only by the valet, who was dusting the furniture and bric-a-brac with a feather broom rather in the style of a man-servant at the rise of the curtain of an old-fashioned farce. After a courteous exchange of greetings, Archie sat down and lit a cigarette. Parker went on dusting.
"The guv'nor," said Parker, breaking the silence, "has some nice little objay dar, sir."
"Little what?"
"Objay dar, sir."
Light dawned upon Archie.
"Of course, yes. French for junk. I see what you mean now. Dare say you're right, old friend. Don't know much about these things myself."
Parker gave an appreciative flick at a vase on the mantelpiece.
"Very valuable, some of the guv'nor's things." He had picked up the small china figure of the warrior with the spear, and was grooming it with the ostentatious care of one brushing flies off a sleeping Venus. He regarded this figure with a look of affectionate esteem which seemed to Archie absolutely uncalled-for. Archie's taste in Art was not precious. To his untutored eye the thing was only one degree less foul than his father-in-law's Japanese prints, which he had always observed with silent loathing. "This one, now," continued Parker. "Worth a lot of money. Oh, a lot of money."
"What, Pongo?" said Archie incredulously.
"Sir?"
"I always call that rummy-looking what-not Pongo. Don't know what else you could call him, what!"
The valet seemed to disapprove of this levity. He shook his head and replaced the figure on the mantelpiece.
"Worth a lot of money," he repeated. "Not by itself, no."
"Oh, not by itself?"
"No, sir. Things like this come in pairs. Somewhere or other there's the companion-piece to this here, and if the guv'nor could get hold of it, he'd have something worth having. Something that connoozers would give a lot of money for. But one's no good without the other. You have to have both, if you understand my meaning, sir."
"I see. Like filling a straight flush, what?"
"Precisely, sir."
Archie gazed at Pongo again, with the dim hope of discovering virtues not immediately apparent to the casual observer. But without success. Pongo left him cold--even chilly. He would not have taken Pongo as a gift, to oblige a dying friend.
"How much would the pair be worth?" he asked. "Ten dollars?"
Parker smiled a gravely superior smile. "A leetle more than that, sir. Several thousand dollars, more like it."
"Do you mean to say," said Archie, with honest amazement, "that there are chumps going about loose--absolutely loose--who would pay that for a weird little object like Pongo?"
"Undoubtedly, sir. These antique china figures are in great demand among collectors."
Archie looked at Pongo once more, and shook his head.
"Well, well, well! It takes all sorts to make a world, what!"
What might be called the revival of Pongo, the restoration of Pongo to the ranks of the things that matter, took place several weeks later, when Archie was making holiday at the house which his father-in-law had taken for the summer at Brookport. The curtain of the second act may be said to rise on Archie strolling back from the golf-links in the cool of an August evening. From time to time he sang slightly, and wondered idly if Lucille would put the finishing touch upon the all-rightness of everything by coming to meet him and sharing his homeward walk.
She came in view at this moment, a trim little figure in a white skirt and a pale blue sweater. She waved to Archie; and Archie, as always at the sight of her, was conscious of that jumpy, fluttering sensation about the heart, which, translated into words, would have formed the question, "What on earth could have made a girl like that fall in love with a chump like me?" It was a question which he was continually asking himself, and one which was perpetually in the mind also of Mr. Brewster, his father-in-law. The matter of Archie's unworthiness to be the husband of Lucille was practically the only one on which the two men saw eye to eye.
"Hallo--allo--allo!" said Archie. "Here we are, what! I was just hoping you would drift over the horizon."
Lucille kissed him.
"You're a darling," she said. "And you look like a Greek god in that suit."
"Glad you like it." Archie squinted with some complacency down his chest. "I always say it doesn't matter what you pay for a suit, so long as it's right. I hope your jolly old father will feel that way when he settles up for it."
"Where is father? Why didn't he come back with you?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, he didn't seem any too keen on my company. I left him in the locker-room chewing a cigar. Gave me the impression of having something on his mind."
"Oh, Archie! You didn't beat him AGAIN?"
Archie looked uncomfortable. He gazed out to sea with something of embarrassment.
"Well, as a matter of fact, old thing, to be absolutely frank, I, as it were, did!"
"Not badly?"
"Well, yes! I rather fancy I put it across him with some vim and not a little emphasis. To be perfectly accurate, I licked him by ten and eight."
"But you promised me you would let him beat you to-day. You know how pleased it would have made him."
"I know. But, light of my soul, have you any idea how dashed difficult it is to get beaten by your festive parent at golf?"
"Oh, well!" Lucille sighed. "It can't be helped, I suppose." She felt in the pocket of her sweater. "Oh, there's a letter for you. I've just been to fetch the mail. I don't know who it can be from. The handwriting looks like a vampire's. Kind of scrawly."
Archie inspected the envelope. It provided no solution.
"That's rummy! Who could be writing to me?"
"Open it and see."
"Dashed bright scheme! I will, Herbert Parker. Who the deuce is Herbert Parker?"
"Parker? Father's valet's name was Parker. The one he dismissed when he found he was wearing his shirts."
"Do you mean to say any reasonable chappie would willingly wear the sort of shirts your father--? I mean to say, there must have been some mistake."
"Do read the letter. I expect he wants to use your influence with father to have him taken back."
"MY influence? With your FATHER? Well, I'm dashed. Sanguine sort of Johnny, if he does. Well, here's what he says. Of course, I remember jolly old Parker now--great pal of mine."
Dear Sir,--It is some time since the undersigned had the
honour of conversing with you, but I am respectfully trusting
that you may recall me to mind when I mention that until
recently I served Mr. Brewster, your father-in-law, in the
capacity of valet. Owing to an unfortunate misunderstanding,
I was dismissed from that position and am now temporarily out
of a job. "How art thou fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, son of
the morning!" (Isaiah xiv. 12.)
"You know," said Archie, admiringly, "this bird is hot stuff! I mean to say he writes dashed well."
It is not, however, with my own affairs that I desire to
trouble you, dear sir. I have little doubt that all will be
well with me and that I shall not fall like a sparrow to the
ground. "I have been young and now am old; yet have I not
seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread"
(Psalms xxxvii. 25). My object in writing to you is as
follows. You may recall that I had the pleasure of meeting
